Stroke of Twelve
by TheBrokenWarrior
Summary: Based on the tale of Cinderella. In a kingdom threatened by rebellion, Cendra works as a maid for a prestigious noble family. The royal family plans to hold a public ball to appease the populace. But others have plans as well. A dark faerie, a young rebel, the mysterious Mr. Black, and Cendra - all have their own ideas of what will happen at the stroke of twelve.
1. Prologue and Chapter 1

Stroke of Twelve

By TheBrokenWarrior

Prologue

Cendra woke up one night to the sound of angry shouting. A familiar fear clutched at her heart, as she realized the voice to be that of her father. She crawled out of bed, groping through the dark until she reached the stairs. A faint light glimmered against an opposite wall. Attempting to creep down the steps without being heard, she was startled at the sound of a loud slap, and she heard the voice of her mother give a small cry. A shadow moved quickly across the source of light.

As Cendra crouched against the wall, shaking, her father's angry footsteps stomped across the room towards the stairs. Torn between the desire to help her mother, and dread of the retribution she would receive if she attempted to do so, she did what she always had before: she turned to flee.

She was too late. A hand shot out and grabbed her arm. Struggling for a moment, she gave up and stared at her feet, unable to meet the gaze of the one who held her.

"Well look what I caught," her father said, his breath in her face. It smelled of alcohol. "What are you doing spying on me and your mother's discussion?"

"Dad, I'm sorry!" Cendra choked out, wincing as his fingernails dug into her skin. "I didn't mean to, I - I swear. It's just I needed a drink-"

"Liar," he accused her, "Wicked, rebellious girl. You should be grateful for how merciful I've been to you. Instead, you repay me by lying, sneaking around my back, and betraying me." He shook her arm viciously. She fought back tears.

"What do you mean, betraying you?" she exclaimed, voice breaking, "I've never done anything to harm you in my life!"

"How dare you say that to my face!" he exclaimed, "I know that you were about to run to the neighbors and stain my reputation with your lies. Get back to bed, before I think better of it and give you the punishment you deserve!"

He shoved her towards the stairs. She ran up into the dark, and stumbled into bed. Her pillow was soaked with tears by the time she fell asleep.

.

.

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Chapter I.

Of the many legends the people of Endomia tell, there is one they hold very dear. The truth of it is doubtful, and the telling of it varies from town to town. Some parts of it are incredible to believe, but so often in history things take place that many deem impossible, that it would be a hard task, to know for sure the difference between truth and fiction. There are some elements, though, that remain the same in every telling, and these are taken as the most accurate version.

The war had been going on for more than two generations, and in the minds of the fighting peoples the purpose to the wounds they dealt and received had long been forgotten. Great countries had fallen to pieces, and the shattered remains fought constantly with one another. It is no wonder that the many grievances on every side only served to increase the hatred and distrust every man held for his enemies. The battles grew more and more confused, the land began to lose every trace of civilization, and the men were reduced to brute savagery merely to survive.

It was during this dark time that a single man determined to turn the tides and bring peace to the land. His name was Berin, and he tried to remind the people of their dignity and right to a peaceful light, and to show them that he could lead the way to one. The few around him who had the sanity to think bitterly scoffed at what they saw as a fool's dream. To the despairing people, words of peace and hope were merely a mockery to their suffering. At first they ignored him. Soon they grew to hate him. But as he persevered, a new feeling awakened in their own hearts, an emotion they had never had the courage to feel. Following this feeling, they began to hope in him.

Around Berin many united in an ever-growing force of warriors. Deftly and with luck that never seemed to run out, their leader crushed the resistance of the enemies. The few who survived his blows turned and followed him. He was unstoppable. Through the many trials they faced, and the impossible odds they went up against, he brought them victorious at last. Together, they raised up a kingdom, and called it Indomita, The Unconquerable.

Over four-hundred years the name underwent a lot of change. The kingdom was now Endomia, though people attributed the same meaning to it. Of course, a lot more than the name was altered over time. It would seem the citizens of Endomia could not keep their happiness for long. Though the noble family possessed the same blood as the legendary Berin, they seemed to possess neither his strong will nor his invincible luck. Many of the common people were discontented, and rebellion threatened to break out every day. A chance meeting, or a stray remark - those often had more meaning than it appeared. Secret organizations had sprung up, composed of members from among the common people as well as the nobility. The aims of these groups varied. But there was one thing for sure: the people were unhappy with their lives, and they wanted the rulers of the land to take responsibility. If the King would not do his job, then they would just have to replace him with someone who would.

Cendra tried not to worry about those sorts of things. She had too many other things to think about. There was the lack of healthy food in the house, the constantly empty stomach. These she could suffer without complaints. But then there were her two little brothers, who suffered as well, and they certainly felt no shame in crying over the unfairness. There was her mother's ill health, and her constantly increasing sick spells. And hanging above her head like the ominous feel of a thunderhead was the memory of her father. That, perhaps, was the worst of all.

Two years before, he had gotten unusually upset over some new decree of the King. More than happy to take out his anger on those around him, he had gotten into an argument with Cendra's mother, a usual pastime of his. What was not usual of him, though, was what happened afterwards: namely, that he walked out the door, and was never seen again. It had been a dark night and he had been drunk when it happened, and people came to the conclusion that he had fallen into the deep river nearby and drowned.

Cendra would have liked to believe them, but she couldn't. Though she had never understood her father, and had hardly known him beyond his drunken rages, she couldn't picture him drowning in the deep, swift waters of the Himintar. No one had known anything about her father before he moved to town and met her mother, and she often wondered what had been in his past - and most importantly, whether he had gone back to it.

What with all these problems, Cendra didn't have time to worry about rumors of rebellion and war. While she could hope that nothing serious would take place, there was nothing she could do about it. She had suffered enough in her life, and so she tried to take advantage of the temporary peace and not to trouble herself about things beyond her control. She never knew when some new blow of Fate would knock her down again.

Little did she know how hard Fate was about to strike her.

Author's Note: I hope you like the first chapter of Stroke of Twelve. I had to give a lot of background, so there isn't much action, but the plot will be developing more in the next chapters. Feel free to comment on what you liked and disliked about this. I would be extremely grateful for any feedback, especially if it helps me improve! :) Thanks again!


	2. Chapter 2

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 2

Lord Henry Beaufort entered the musky tavern, and couldn't help a grimace as the unpleasant odor of mold, sweat, and cheap beer greeted him. He turned to his companion, a young, muscular man with short brown hair.

"For whatever reason our informer chose this place, it certainly wasn't the smell," he said. His companion nodded, but remained silent. Lord Beaufort stepped forward, holding a lantern above his head, and surveyed the room. It was small and mostly empty, furnished with only rickety tables and chairs. There were a few cupboards on the far wall behind a short bar, and a door on the further end. He tried the handle and discovered the door to be locked. Moving to a table, he set the lantern down, and pulled out a chair.

"If I remember correctly, he is to arrive within the hour." He lifted his watch, which hung on a chain from his belt. The time read ten-thirty. The other man nodded again, and followed him to the table, where he hesitated for a moment. Beaufort laughed heartily.

"You can have a seat," he said, motioning to the opposite chair, "and there's no need to be reserved. These missions are too stressful and boring if one is silent the whole time. Heaven knows there will be time enough to be silent later on." He took out a pipe and lit it. "Now, my fine lad, what is your name again?"

His companion hastily sat down. "John, sir." he replied. "John Claxton."

"That's a good, sturdy name," Beaufort said appreciatively. "I hope to find you as sturdy a companion for our cause. However, we should probably come up with an alias, for your safety." Not waiting for an answer, he continued. "Now John, I hear from my good friend, Sir Drake, that this will be your first mission of this kind."

John confirmed this. "Glad to hear it," Beaufort smiled. "I love taking the newcomers. The mistakes they make are so amusing." His voice turned serious. "Of course, as the result of this visit is important to our cause, I'd appreciate it if you tried not to make any blunders."

"I shall do my best, sir." John replied earnestly. "I hope, sir-"

"Tsk! tsk!" Beaufort shook his head. "We can't have any of these formalities. We are all comrades here, living, fighting, and laying down our lives for the same cause. Liberty, equality, and fraternity! Don't bother to defer to me what you wouldn't to any other man, or what you wouldn't expect for yourself. Please just call me Henry."

"Sorry Lord Beau…" stuttered John, "Um, that is, thank you… Henry."

There was silence for a moment, but Lord Beaufort noticed that John quickly forgot his discomfiture in his excitement. His eyes sparkled, and he looked at the room around him with an air of curiosity. "So what is his name?" he said after a while.

"What's that?" said Lord Beaufort, distractedly.

"The informer - what's his name?"

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know. He claims it is Mr. Black, but the truth of it is doubtful."

The minutes ticked by, and the hour in which Mr. Black was scheduled to arrive neared its end. Both men appeared to be absorbed in their thoughts. At last, Lord Beaufort checked his watch. "When he does arrive," he advised John, "be attentive to our conversation. There is a certain way these dealings must be taken care of, and you never know when you might be called upon to undertake a similar mission. Pay particular attention to how I act. If he is the sort I usually deal with, a menacing attitude and a few carefully voiced threats should be all I need to help him remember any few details he is inclined to forget."

A strong wind blew against the building, and the ancient boards squeaked in protest. Rain began to fall, quietly at first, but quickly increasing in volume and frequency. Soon a deep rumbling was heard. Beaufort lifted an eyebrow. "A thunderstorm, eh?" he muttered. "You like to arrive in style."

If John was wondering who the sentence was addressed to, he had no chance to ask; for at that moment, three loud, deliberate knocks shook the door. Beaufort took the pipe out of his mouth, and slowly breathed out the smoke. "Go ahead and open it," he ordered.

John stood and walked to the door. Delaying for just a moment, he took a deep breath, and lifted the latch. There was hardly time for John to back out of the way before a violent gust of wind blew the door open.

The smoke Beaufort had exhaled a moment before blew back into his eyes. He blinked a few times as his eyes watered. It took a second or two for his vision to clear; he saw the visitor standing two yards away, cape billowing in the wind, and a dark hood overshadowing his upper face. Rain rushed wildly in, and a streak of lightning lit the doorway. With a great effort, John swung the door shut and the air inside the building was once again still.

The newly arrived man coolly shook the mud off his boots. Streams of water ran down his clothes, and out of his thick beard poured a miniature waterfall. The water flowed down in reckless rivers around his feet, running across the floor boards and soaking through cracks. Finishing with his boots, he proceeded to dramatically pull off his thick leather gloves, and shook the excess water off of them. That completed, there was nothing to do but pull back his hood. He lifted his hand as though to do so, and John was eager to see the face of the one who had just made such an exciting entrance.

Author's Note: I hope this is more exciting than the previous chapter. :D Remember, feedback and comments are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 3

Beaufort and John watched apprehensively as the stranger reached up towards his hood. He seemed to hesitate for the slightest of moments, then pulled it casually back, exposing his face to the lantern's light. He had dark blue eyes, a straight nose, and heavy eyebrows. His mouth was pressed in a firm line, and the few wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes seemed to be carved out of stone. He gazed calmly at the two men before him, and then spoke with a deep, yet soft, voice.

"I apologize for being late. The weather impeded my travel."

Beaufort, though slightly disgruntled, had quickly regained his calm, with the experience of many years to help him.

"Mr… _Black_, I presume?" He said, with the raise of an eyebrow, and a slight pause between the 'Mr.' and the 'Black' to show that he was not taken in by the fake name.

Mr. Black, as he will be called, nodded, "The same. And you are…?"

"Bear." Then Beaufort nodded toward his assistant. "This is my comrade… Glass," he said, enunciating every word slowly and deliberately. He leaned forward, ever so slightly, eyes fixed on Mr. Black. It was as though he was testing the informant - looking for his reaction.

"Call him not comrade, but brother" Mr. Black replied, his face devoid of emotion, "for we are men of like mind."

Beaufort leaned back immediately, smiled, and puffed at his pipe. "Have a seat… brother."

Mr. Black took a chair from a nearby table and sat down. John, wondering at what just happened, sat down at a signal from Beaufort. He looked carefully back and forth between the two other men. There was no way that Beaufort could have meant the word "brother" literally. There had to be some meaning to the conversation he had just had with Mr. Black.

"So… how have your travels in the crown city fared?" Beaufort asked, smiling.

"The days are warm, and the nights tolerable," Mr. Black replied, "Up until now, the weather has been fair. The nobles have certainly been busy of late, having many balls to attend. All in all, it has been a profitable journey."

Beaufort seemed happy and at ease, chatting and making light talk. Mr. Black took out his own pipe, and nodded his head now and then at something Beaufort said. They treated each other almost as old friends - or rather, as friends of friends. John observed them carefully, and made the decision to ask about their strange introduction. If Beaufort was acting casually, it meant John was to do the same.

"Erhhm…" John cleared his throat, wondering how exactly to put forth the question, "What was with the whole "comrade, not brother" thing? It seemed slightly...out of place, as though more was meant than what you said. What was the meaning of it all?"

He suppressed a shiver as Mr. Black turned his piercing gaze towards him, "You don't know?"

"Mr. Glass is a new recruit," Beaufort explained to Black. "Glass, I'm glad to find you an observant student. It's a test to determine whether or not a person is of the Fraternity. Mr. Black, as you can see, passed it with flying colors."

"Speaking of the Fraternity," said Black coolly, "It would probably be in its best interest that I give you the information now, as I have a meeting with a certain person of influence in another part of the country, and I can't stay here much longer."

"Yes, of course," Beaufort said, suddenly becoming business-like, "I am very interested to hear the political views of Sir Alexander Ephram, as well as the Lords George and Harold Baxterly and their father."

"Ahh, good old Alex," Black said, smiling, "You'll have no problem with him, I assure you. The knight is very firm in his opinions on taxes, as his close friends well know, and strongly resents the latest decree of the king. Though he is old-fashioned in his public views, it does us good that he believes in responsibility and good leadership over titles and money. And though it has been well covered up, the murder of the late Sir Orville Wells, the king's dirty advisor, has been traced back to Ephram."

"Sir Ephram!" Beaufort said with some surprise, "Who would have thought! What about his opinion on the sanctity of the royal family's blood? Surely he doesn't have such liberal views on that."

"He has put up a worthy public face," Black replied, "but he has much less honour when unobserved by the noble's eyes, and over a glass or two of Rondel's Ale. So long as all is discreetly done, he will have no problem in aiding our cause. And as for the Baxterly's-"

"Yes, what of them?" Beaufort said eagerly, "I have heard much on both sides of the story, but no sources are certain to be trusted."

"You can trust mine," Black spoke solemnly, "George Baxterly is on anything but good terms with his father, especially after his midnight rendezvous with a girl of lower rank were discovered. The father has forbid the engagement, and the young lord resents it greatly. The girl was easily persuaded to reveal her lover's opinions on the condition that an obstacle to the marriage be removed. George is safe, though with his current occupation, he may not be of much use yet. The younger son's loyalties are unknown, and as he has not yet entered society, little else is known either, other than his yearly allowance. The father, I regret to say, has recently been involved in a scandalous affair, which resulted in his being removed from his position of power. George Baxterly is currently the holder of his family's estates, money, position, etc., and is about to be married to his lover."

Beaufort listened with interest, raising an eyebrow at some parts of the story. When Black finished, he jotted down a few notes on a piece of paper he had pulled out, then looked up again.

"What about the Lord and Lady Darsh?" he asked. "They are in a good position to help our cause."

"Definitely not on our side."

"More's the pity. Ah, well. What of the Lord Dalfgin?"

"A loyal supporter to the king."

"Sir Thorden? - The younger, not the elder."

Mr. Black took a while to answer, tapping his pipe against the table thoughtfully.

"He is a young man of very little ambition or interest in the current state of affairs. He could be influenced, if promised a secure position - as long as he has wine and women, he is content. It would be a risky move, however; he has everything he wants under the rule of the king, and won't see much reason to make any efforts to change anything."

Beaufort crossed off a few names on the paper, and frowned at the next one on the list.

"Lord Francis Musuard," he pronounced the syllables with obvious distaste.

Black raised an eyebrow at the name, "That dandy? He's as likely to join in a rebellion as to mar his pretty face or tear his fine kid gloves."

"Lord Chestorson?"

"A stroke of luck there - he has made recent inquiries about the cause, and his wife holds a weekly ball to which people of all ranks are invited. They are very open-minded. It would seem that he has bent the stick the other way, after the death of his strict father."

"Hmm. What about Lord John Claxton?"

John started at this question, but quickly hid his reaction by adjusting the candle in the lantern, the flame of which had begun to sputter.

"Claxton?" Black wrinkled his brow, as close to looking confused as he had the entire night, "As in the son of the late George Claxton and his widow, Lady Veronica?"

"The same," said Beaufort coolly.

"I do not have adequate information on him," Black said cautiously, "Sources say him to be a popular man in the circles of society, especially with rich young ladies, but quiet and uncommunicative about his personal opinions. He is currently studying at the University in Darton."

"Ahh, so he will probably be busy with his books for a few years more." Beaufort yawned, "That brings us to the Duke of Fernwood."

"He is under close observation by the king's spies; being suspected of the attempt on the king's life a few years back. Nothing of weight was ever brought against him. He is a cautious man, and has had to walk a tight line to avoid suspicion."

"So you have nothing on him?"

"I never said that," Black smiled, "He is a cautious man, but all men have their weaknesses. The Duke talks in his sleep, and his wife heard him say some very treasonous insults against the king. Theirs is an unhappy marriage, and he keeps many mistresses, so it is no wonder that she was happy to get back at him by reporting his views to the next king's spy to inquire after him through her. Unfortunately for her, she mistook a rebel spy for one of the king, and she is now deathly ill, and incapable of spilling the secret to anyone."

"...And you are certain the Duke is on our side?" Beaufort inquired.

"Absolutely. All it takes is an accidental meeting at the next drunken masquerade of his, a luncheon arranged the next day, and with a few precautionary measures, he will be yours."

"Wonderful. He will be of great use to us."

"Indeed he will."

"Well then," Beaufort put the list away, "all that is left is for me to inquire of a certain Lord and Lady Henry Beaufort, and their son, Lord Percy Beaufort."

"The Lady Beaufort has delicate health, and is more often concerned by the state of her nerves than of the country. She, however, will go along with whatever her husband's will is, as long as he leaves her alone to host tea parties for her charity club. Lord Beaufort rarely goes to balls or gatherings, attending only those hosted by the most elite, and the king's inner circle. At home he enjoys private chats in the garden with his close friend, Sir Drake Harrowheart, where they discuss their disappointment with the people's lack of resistance to unreasonable laws."

"Where did you learn of this?" asked Beaufort calmly.

"Why, the gardener's boy. I suppose his master has placed great trust in him to allow him to trim the roses during his confidential meetings with Sir Drake. Or perhaps he merely overlooked his presence in the garden, or underestimated the ability of a supposed half-wit to understand the meaning of his treasonous conversation. However it happened, the boy heard quite enough to discover that Lord Beaufort harbours very strong feelings against most of the ways the country is run today."

Beaufort showed no outwards signs of anger, but John was sure that he was plotting the downfall of the treacherous gardener's boy.

"Lord Beaufort," Black went on to say, "believes that an overthrow of power could be arranged, so that the country would be taken over with as little bloodshed as possible. He is of the opinion that the current ruler could be disposed of, and certain advisors and persons of power. In his reasoning, Prince Charles would be crowned king, and easily manipulated by puppet masters behind the throne, one of which being Beaufort himself. From there, certain discriminatory laws could be revoked, new laws would be written, and all would have the sacred seal of the royal family. Those of the people who are not as anti-royalist as others would still have a person of royal blood on the throne, and the rest would be content with the change in laws and taxes."

"He seems in consistence with our cause," Beaufort remarked, "Though his ambition in becoming one of the leaders of the revolution, and thereafter being given such a high position will likely be crushed. There are many others who would stand in his way, desiring the power of making decisions for themselves, or wishing the power to be given to the people. Other than that, though, I believe we can trust him. And what are the views of his son?"

"His son," said Black, "has similar views to the father. He, however, seems to think that separation of the classes was a necessary measure to take. He also believes in the sacredness of the royal blood, and supports imprisoning the king rather than disposing of him in a more efficient way. Unfortunately, he will be of no use to the Fraternity."

"Whyever not?" asked Beaufort, frowning.

"Because Beaufort's son," said Black, seeming amused, "is dead."

"What!" Beaufort exclaimed, his face paling, "It cannot be true!"

"Aye, but it is, Sir Bear," the other replied, "He was attacked by bandits three days ago as he traveled homewards from a friend's house. He received a mortal wound, and was brought to the nearest residence, only to expire an hour later from loss of blood."

"Where did you hear of this?" Beaufort said in a strangled voice.

"You remember earlier I stated I came here from the crown city. I stopped in Dirgeford to attend to some business, and heard about it from the innkeeper. I had no time to hear any more than that which I have told you, as I had to hasten from the place immediately afterwards. So you see it cannot but be true."

"If that is all of import you can tell us," said Beaufort, jerkily tapping out the contents of his pipe, "then we had best be on our way." He stood up stiffly. John followed his example.

"Wait!" said Mr. Black, holding up a hand to stop them, "I have one more thing to tell you."

"What is it?" Beaufort spat out.

"I'm afraid Lord Henry Beaufort will be incapable of helping the Fraternity as well."

"How so?"

Slowly, casually, Mr. Black reached under his cloak and pulled out a sword. "About five minutes from now, he will be dead."

_Author's Note: What do you think is going to happen? :) Will Beaufort die? And why does Black want to kill him? I'd love some feedback. Any comments on what you liked or disliked about this chapter will be appreciated - they'll light a fire under my butt and make me work a little faster :D_


	4. Chapter 4

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 4

Cendra Jane Flaxfield paced worriedly in the kitchen. Though the family's ancient heirloom watch had broken long ago, she could still estimate the time by how far the lone candle had burned down since she lighted it. It was around eleven, and the drumming of rain on the roof attested to how wild the night was outside. Lightning threw flashes of light through the kitchen window, and the thunder followed in a deep rumble.

Though Cendra could not see far through the buckets of rain falling, she knew that by now the river would be swollen and dangerous. The road would be slippery and muddy - the bridge perhaps washed away. The strong winds threw the rain in constantly changing directions, as though angry at everything all at once. Travelling in this storm would be dangerous. But that was not what worried Cendra. She had no need to go anywhere tonight.

It was her mother who she worried for.

A seamstress shop two miles away was the place where Mrs. Flaxfield worked. The tedious work hours stretched from seven in the morning to seven at night. More often than not her employer kept her till nine, taking care of extra tasks. She was not paid for the extra hours; they were looked upon as voluntary work. But there was an unspoken understanding that if she didn't "volunteer" to complete the tasks, her employer would see no reason to continue paying her at all.

Because of this, it was in no way uncommon for her to be home late. But the time tonight was later than ever before, and it was possible that Mrs. Flaxfield was caught somewhere in the storm. Of course, it was also possible that she had not left before the rain started, and decided to stay in town. Cendra certainly hoped so, but she was afraid her mother would be too worried about her children to wait the storm out.

A floorboard that Cendra stepped on as she walked back and forth squeaked in protest every time she stepped on it. At last she moved to the table to sit down, tired of pacing, and annoyed at the squeaky floorboard. She sat down on the chair. It squeaked.

The whole house was falling apart. Slowly, over the years, the roof had begun to leak, the walls shifted, furniture broke, and the whole house seemed to reflect the misery of its occupants. If the squealing of the old wood was the house's expression of pain or frustration, Cendra thought, then it certainly reflected her feelings at the moment.

The door opened, and a gust of wind chilled Cendra and nearly put out the candle. Mrs. Flaxfield stood in the doorway, struggling with her heavy bags, and completely drenched.

"Oh my gosh, Mom, are you okay?" Cendra exclaimed as she rushed to the door to take the bags. After quickly setting them aside, she helped her mother take off her soaking overcoat. The clothes underneath were just as wet. Cendra fetched a towel and wrapped it around her mother.

"Thank you, dear," the shivering woman said, teeth chattering, "How are the boys?"

"The boys are just fine, Mom," said Cendra exasperatedly, "But look at you! How can you worry about them when you are practically drowning?"

She went over to the fireplace, where the tea kettle had been hanging over the coals for quite some time. After pouring a cup of tea, and adding a precious spoonful of honey, she brought it to her mother. She pulled another chair out, sat down, and at her mother's request, gave an account of the day. Afterwards there was silence.

Mrs. Flaxfield was of average height, though she appeared much smaller seated. Her wet hair was a greying blonde, and her eyes were clear blue. Cendra, who sat opposite to her, was also opposite in appearance. She was taller than her mother, about 5 11" perhaps, though she hadn't any form of accurate measurement to go by. Her hair was a color indistinguishable between black and brown; in the dim lighting of the candle it looked black. Her eyes were a deep blue. Her appearance came from her father.

"What happened to you, Mom?" Cendra broke the silence. "I mean, you arrived so late; there must have been something other than your usual extra duties."

Her mother remained quiet for another moment. At last she replied, her voice low. "I lost the job."

"What? How?" Cendra gasped.

"Cendra, dear, you know I've been very sick lately." Mrs. Flaxfield said slowly.

"Yes?"

"Well, I've been getting to work late, and as you know, taking a lot of days off recently." Her voice was tired. "My boss was very fed up with me. And today - well, it was the last straw. I felt dizzy sometime after dinner, and lost consciousness for a while."

"Oh no! How are you feeling now? Any better?"

"Yes, Cendra," her mother replied, faintly smiling. "Please don't worry about me. I'm fine. It's just our financial situation that I'm worried about now. With my health, and limited capabilities, I don't know what I'll do, and we won't last very long with the money we have. I'll have to get a new job. Perhaps Farmer Stevin will give me some tasks to do on his farm; he's always been nice to our family."

"Mom, you can't work on a farm," Cendra reminded her sadly. "The manual labor will be too much for you."

"Oh, I know," her mother sighed. "I - I just can't think of anything else to do."

At that moment, Mrs. Flaxfield looked so dejected that Cendra could have cried for her. Instead, she looked back quickly over her life. So many things had happened - terrible things. The past two years had been relatively peaceful. She didn't want to do anything dangerous - to make any mistakes, or take any risks. But more than that, she didn't want her mother to get hurt, ever again.

"Mom," she said, voice breaking, "you don't have to do anything."

"What do you mean?" Tired, confused eyes looked at her.

"I mean," Cendra said more firmly, and she meant every word of it, "I will get a job."

_Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews! You are awesome. :D I was so happy when I read them that I wrote this chapter in one sitting. Usually it takes me a few days to write something of this length, for lack of motivation._

_I hope you like this chapter, in which our heroine makes her first major decision - a life-changing one, I should add. We are also introduced to the character of her mother. And now that they are taken care of, I can return my attentions to what is happening between Beaufort and Mr. Black. They will be appearing again in the next chapter. I'm so excited! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 5

Beaufort stood frozen in place, staring at Black with a shocked expression. Black stood casually, his weight on one foot, wearing a slight smirk at Beaufort's expression. John stood aside, glancing between the two, unsure of how he was supposed to respond.

After a moment, Beaufort seemed to shake himself out of the daze he had been in, and his eyes traveled from Black's face to the weapon he had drawn. "You're not of the Fraternity, are you?" he said coolly. A strange fire burnt in his brown eyes.

"I doubt I would kill you if I were," Black replied.

Beaufort put his hand on his own weapon. "How did you know the correct reply earlier? The brothers are loyal to their cause; they would rather have died then reveal the secret." He scowled. "Or perhaps you yourself are a traitor to the cause; tell me, were you ever a member?"

"For someone as experienced in lies and secrets as you," Black remarked, "You place a lot of trust in those fools following you. Do you really think they are all so devoted to the cause? A threat to their own life, or that of a loved one, can shake the conviction of the strongest man among you."

At this, Beaufort pulled out his sword, pointing it towards Black. "You may say that," he snarled, "but I can prove to you by my actions tonight that I fear not for my own life so much as to betray the cause. In fact, I am rather pleased more than unsettled that you revealed yourself tonight - the sooner I can beat this arrogance out of you."

If Black had any reaction to the sword pointed towards him, he certainly did not show it. "Beware of overestimating your own abilities, Lord Beaufort, and pay mind to your imperfections when you seek to avert the certain blow of Fate. Once I begin, there will be no escape. I suggest you retreat now, before it is too late."

"What would be the point of that?" Said Beaufort. "Were I to flee, it would not do anything to change your mind, would it? It would be nothing if not dishonorable. And I hold no fear of you and your clumsy stick, sir - my skills in the art of swordplay are far from lacking." But despite his words, he gripped his sword tighter. Through gritted teeth he addressed John. "You'd best leave, Glass. It would be a shame for you to get hurt before you had a chance to progress our cause. Pray take a horse, and ride to the nearest Fraternity house. There you can inform them of this wolf in sheep's clothing. When you return, you can help me dispose of his useless corpse."

"Do you not fear to be left alone?" Black asked, taunting him. "Surely the odds would be better for you if he remained to help in your intentions of defeating me."

"You must think low of our order indeed," replied Beaufort, "if you think I will not try to keep others out of harm's way."

"That is exactly why your cause is so weak - your order so low," Black sneered, "you are too timid to get your hands dirty - too careful to protect others. We have no use of people such as you in the world we will make!"

"We?" questioned Beaufort, seizing upon the small amount of information the other had let slip, "Are you, then, from some rival group? I had thought you to be in the king's service, but this, this is much worse. If we both work for the downfall of the monarchy, why cannot we lay aside our petty differences to work, together, for the same cause?"

"That, my _dear_ Beaufort, is another reason my kind cannot stand you. You think we will submit to your way of thinking - to your binding ideals? You sidestep around the work of men, and cringe at the mere mention of bloodshed. Was this country founded by timid men (unfit to be called men!) who ran from battle, and avoided turmoil? No! It was risen by those who had no fear of crushing the weaker ones around them, in order to grow strong upon the blood of their victims.

"Your Fraternity may as well dress its members in white petticoats and face powder, if they continue to skirt around the issues of what must be done to restore this country's strength. Your respect for the fools of royal blood is idiocy. Blood is blood, be it descended from a legendary hero or no, and it spills just the same in either case. To kill injustice, the enforcers of injustice must die."

Beaufort was distracted by Black's speech, and when Black took this opportunity to thrust his sword at him, he barely moved in time to block it. He glanced with a fierce look towards John, who was lingering still, listening to their exchange.

"Glass!" he spat out. "Leave. Now."

John hesitated one more moment, then nodded and left through the door, not bothering to shut it as he ran towards the stables where the horses were tied. The rain blew wildly into the tavern, once again wetting the floor and throwing the two men's hair about. A chair or two toppled over, and the lantern fell off the table, going dark as it smashed on the floor. The only lighting now was the occasional flash of lightning.

Beaufort shifted his weight nervously, glancing about in the darkness. A deep tremor shook the building as the splitting sounds of thunder roared in the sky. He could hear nothing - no footsteps, no breathing, as the sound filled his ears.

Suddenly a spear of lightning struck from the clouds, and in the space of a second Black's face appeared in his view. A few swift strokes were given on either end; all were just as quickly parried. Beaufort stepped softly backwards from the place where he had seen Black, as thunder filled the air once again. He did not want to risk being too close when the next stroke was aimed.

Another flash. Again the clang of swords clashing was heard, though this time, Beaufort gave a cry of pain as his arm was cut. Blackness once more. Again and again it played out; blindness stretched on, and in a sudden moment of light Black's face appeared, almost inhuman in the strobing light. Sometimes a wound was dealt, sometimes not. On and on the deadly dance continued, until Beaufort stumbled over a chair.

Panting, he regained his balance, and stood anticipating his opponent's next attack. As soon as the next bolt struck, he would -

"Lord Beaufort," a laughing voice said from somewhere to his side, you should know why I chose "Black" as my name." Beaufort slashed out in the direction of a voice, but his sword was blocked. "You could say," the voice continued, "that is because-" it was cut off as Beaufort thrust his sword wildly in the dark. Not a single one hit the desired mark.

"As I was saying," the voice went on, "It could be because my soul and conscience are so dark." A laugh. "Or it could be my hair. However, I chose the name for a much better reason than any already mentioned."

Beaufort started as something knocked against his sword with such force that it went flying out of his hand. As lightning shot from the clouds once more, he saw Black standing inches from him, a cool smirk on his face, and a shadow thrown across his eyes. Darkness resumed, and the earth seemed to shake. But it was not thunder that shook Beaufort's heart as Black attacked from his left, throwing him against the ground, and pinning him there.

"I chose the name," Black said, "because I work best in the blackness."

And he plunged the sword into Beaufort's heart.

_Author's note: Scary enough for you? :D I stayed up till 2 am writing this, but I just couldn't stop once I got started. I just had to see what would happen next, even if I already had a general idea of what was going to happen. Don't forget to review, and tell me what you liked and disliked! :)_


	6. Chapter 6

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 6

It was the day after the night that Mrs. Flaxfield had come home late. She now lay in bed, sick and miserable. Cendra had pushed the worries about getting a job out of her head. She cleaned up her two brothers as best she could to go on an outing to the market to get the necessities for the days ahead.

"James! Put the orange back now!" Cendra shouted wearily at her five year old brother. She apologized to the man who had been selling them, and scolded her brother thoroughly. "You should know better than to steal." She said, scowling.

"But Ceeeendra," he said, pouting, "I was going to pay for it."

A smile tugged at her lips. "Oh, really? And how were you going to do that?"

"Tom gave me some money," he said, smiling mischievously at his older brother, "I was going to use that."

"Can you show it to me?" Cendra asked. James looked from side to side as though to make sure no one was watching, and pulled a wallet out of his pocket. Not a moment later, Cendra had snatched the wallet and Tom was howling as she held his ear.

"Where did you find this?" she gasped.

"I - I, well, s-someone lost it!" Tom said, pulling out of her grasp and crossing his arms over his chest. He stared at the ground and repeated, "Someone lost it. I found it."

"In a man's pocket." James supplied, beaming. Tom glared at his younger brother, who was oblivious to what he had said, as Cendra grabbed Tom once again.

"You, young man," she said firmly, "are going to show me whose pocket you took it from. You will apologize to him _sincerely_ for stealing his wallet. And you will be grounded from dessert for the rest of your life if you do not."

Surprisingly, it was easy to convince the boys to point out the unfortunate victim of their theft. Normally their stubbornness would have made the process slower. But perhaps it was the threat of no dessert that made Tom instantly point to a figure across the market place. Angry and embarrassed, Cendra marched the boys to the stall where the man currently stood. Apparently he was making a purchase, as he reached into his pocket, presumably to pull out his wallet. His hand stopped the instant he realized his wallet was gone. Rather than look confused or upset, he instantly began to scan the marketplace, scowling. It was not hard for him to miss the sight Cendra and her brothers made as she dragged them by their ears towards him, her face flushed with annoyance and embarrassment.

Cendra looked up at the scowling man before her. He was tall - taller than her. This made her even more annoyed, as she had worked hard to attain her five foot eleven inches, and still was forced to look up to most men. His curly brown hair framed his face, and his grey eyes pierced right through her, or at least it seemed to her that they did. In an angry sort of way, he was handsome, but of course most men were, and Cendra cared not a bit at the moment. She glanced down at her brothers and shoved them forward.

Tom and James stared sheepishly up at the man, two identical images of shame. If not for their difference in height, one could have mistaken them for twins. They both had round faces, blonde hair, and the same big, adorable eyes. Cendra, with her dark hair and eyes, looked nothing like them. As she glared at them, waiting for them to explain themselves to the man, she looked more like a disapproving mother than a sister of theirs.

Tom was the first to move, smiling innocently and holding the wallet out. "I found your wallet, your highness," he said, making a ridiculously deep bow.

"Yeah," said James, trying to imitate his brother, and outdo him in the bow he made, "We're sorry for stealing your money, your eminence." He stumbled over the last word, making it sound more like "em-in-em-in-mence" than anything else.

"Jamie!" Tom whispered fiercely, elbowing him in the ribs. "You weren't supposed to tell him!"

"What?" protested James, "That's what Cendra told us to say, wasn't it?" he looked up to Cendra for affirmation.

"I said to tell the truth." She reminded Tom disapprovingly.

"Oh," said Tom, turning back to the unimpressed man in front of them. "If you must know the truth, oh royal kingy-man, my brother stole your wallet, and I've come to return it." Ignoring the protests made by James against the lie, he continued, "I'm happy to do a good deed, but of course, I wouldn't mind being rewarded for my goodness." He looked up with very convincing sincerity, though he still fiddled with the wallet, which was still in his hands.

"Thomas." Cendra bit out, "Give. Him. The wallet."

Tom held it up, and the man received it wordlessly, still staring coldly at the trio. The stall owner, as well as a few other people nearby, were watching them as well. The silence was extremely awkward for Cendra, and she rushed to get the whole thing over with.

"Er - we're deeply sorry for troubling you, m'lord," she said, bowing her head, "and pray you accept our apologies." She waited hopefully for the words of forgiveness, but he remained silent, so she quickly added, "We had better, um, leave and stop bothering you. Have a nice day!"

She turned quickly to leave, eager to forget about the whole thing.

"Wait," he said, reaching out his hand as though to stop them. Cendra spun back around, forcing an emotionless, or at least what she hoped to be emotionless, mask upon her face.

"Can I help you, m'lord?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. _We returned the wallet; what can he want now_, she thought irritably.

"As a matter of fact, yes, you can," he snapped, crossing his arms. "You can teach your sons not to act like buffoons around a Lord, or anyone of high rank, for that matter. You can teach them basic courtesy, such as when or not to steal from someone else. And you can explain to them the order of rank in this country, and the difference between 'your highness', 'my lord', and 'kingy-man'."

"Well, _my lord_," spat out Cendra, losing her temper under the pressure of being scolded like a child, "I fully intend to teach my sons proper behaviour, if or when I have any. But as any man not too caught up in his own bloated opinion of himself could plainly see, I am not nearly old enough to be the mother of these two boys. What's more, I can't find that I am too angry with their lack of courtesy, when a _nobleman _such as yourself cannot control himself well enough to use it. And I don't care much for the use of the titles of King, Duke, or Lord, when "buffoon" works just as well."

She paused for just a moment to catch her breath, as she had spoken too quickly and angrily to do so. "And so, my lord, if attempting to shame us is all you wished to do, we will take our leave, and return to more _important_ business."

She refrained from poking him in the chest, though she was almost angry enough to do it. But though she had temporarily lost her head, she did not want to risk being around the haughty man any longer, and neither did she think it would the wisest decision to get any closer to him. So instead, she turned once more and started to storm away.

Only to walk right into someone's chest.

_Blast_. Murmuring an apology, face flushed once more, she looked up what seemed miles of chest and neck to make eye contact with the man she had walked into. _Of course he had to be tall_, Cendra thought, eyes widening, _He's at least six feet five!_

The man regarded her with thoughtful green eyes, his lips curled upward in amusement. "It was entirely my fault, ma'am," he said, bowing slightly, "If I had been paying attention to my surroundings, no doubt I would have seen you storming through the crowd."

Cendra had already yelled enough for one day, so she suppressed her annoyance at the man before her.

"You are too kind," she said curtly, and as he had made no movement to step aside, she went to walk around him. She was surprised, however, when he boldly took her hand.

"I'm Drake, by the way," he said, shaking it.

"Err - pleased to meet you," she replied, but did not give her own name, though it would have been the polite thing to do.

"If you don't mind, ma'am," Drake said, tucking her hand in his arm, "I couldn't help but overhear the argument you had with my friend. I'd hate to see a lovely lady such as yourself leave on such ill terms with him. He really is a good man, when you overlook a few traits of his."

"Oh, I'm sure." she said stiffly, but when he pulled her forward she went along, not wanting to cause any greater a scene than she already might have. The boys followed along behind, for which she was grateful; she wouldn't have to search for them after - after - well, whatever it was the man leading her was going to do.

"Glass," Drake addressed the other man, "I'd like you to meet a pretty acquaintance of mine. Glass, this is - well, ma'am, I don't quite recall you giving me your name. Would you mind repeating it for my friend's benefit?"

Cendra glared at Glass; he glared back just as viciously.

"Drake, and… Glass," she said, raising an eyebrow at the names, "it is an _honor_ to meet you," she said with obviously fake sincerity, while giving a mocking curtsey, which was rendered somewhat difficult by the fact that Drake still had her hand. She frowned at him and tugged it out of his grasp. "You can call me Spitfire. Have a nice day." She smiled sweetly and moved to leave.

For what felt like the billionth time to Cendra, she was stopped.

"Well, little Spitfire," Drake said, "I believe my friend has something he'd like to say to you. Don't you, Glass?"

"You aren't expecting me to apologize to her!" Glass exclaimed, much offended. Cendra stood shocked. Did Drake just call her "little"? _Oh, that odious man!_

"No, I'm asking you to marry her." Drake said sarcastically. "Of course I want you to apologize."

"Fine." the other bit out, then turned to Cendra. "I am deeply sorry, _my dear Spitfire_, for being righteously angry at those who stole my property and treated me with disrespect. I should have let the thieving brats get away with it; I'm sure it would have taught them a lesson in morals and chivalry."

"Good boy," said Drake approvingly, "_Now_ you can marry her."

"Not that I don't appreciate the offer," Cendra said, not appreciating his humor, "but I have enough problems in my life already without worrying about living up to expectations of a buff- that is, of a _noble gentleman_. I really must leave now. Goodbye."

And finally Cendra was allowed to march off and return to her shopping.

_Author's note: So John (aka Glass) and Cendra have met. Neither of them seem very happy in this chapter, but I guess it can be expected, since Cendra is worried about her promise to get a job, and Glass is upset about Beaufort's death. How many of you like Drake? And how honest of a name do you think Cendra gave herself? _

_Please comment on what you liked and disliked, and if you like the story, be sure to follow!_


	7. Chapter 7

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 7

After Cendra left, John turned to Drake.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," Drake replied with a dreamy smile. "It's just not every day that you see a girl like that. She reminds me of the town I grew up in."

John remained silent as they walked through the streets. Sir Drake made light talk about the weather, the state of houses they passed, and pretty girls who waved at him from windows. John bore it for ten minutes, but when Drake returned to the subject of 'Spitfire' for the hundredth time, he lost patience.

"Thank you for trying," he interrupted, "but I really can't take my mind off of Bear's murder. It is extremely disturbing that the Fraternity was infiltrated, despite all our security and precautions. If it happened before, it can happen again, and at this point I really don't know how safe we are."

Sir Drake's cheerful demeanour turned solemn.

"I know it's hard to get used to," he said sadly, "even after all these years it's hard for me to accept that someone who seemed so loyal would betray us. But don't worry. We've had this kind of problem before, and it is not such a major setback. Of course, we don't have any leads at the moment, but if Mr. Black is as against us as he seemed to be, it won't be long before he shows up again."

The two of them reached a street corner where they were to part ways.

"You are intending to return to your family in the crown city, aren't you?" Drake asked.

"Yes," John said, "They think I have been studying at the university, so of course they'll expect me home for vacation."

"Good luck, then," the other replied, and sauntered off.

John ran a hand through his brown hair, and sighed. Turning down a different street, he headed towards the nearest inn to hire a coach. " There still remains a little business to be taken care of," he muttered grimly, "but then I have no more excuses. It seems John Claxton will soon have to return to his… loving family's arms."

…

Meanwhile, Cendra wasn't enjoying the thought of her family either. After a hectic day in the marketplace, she managed to arrive home just in time to start dinner. A neighbour, Mrs. Jones, had stopped by to gossip, and Cendra had politely pretended to listen to the tale of some unfortunate drunk who'd been caught in the act of infidelity by his wife. All the while she cooked and stirred and chopped vegetables, and tried not to burn anything.

She had sent James and Thomas outside to play, but they kept coming back in with complaints about something or other. It was with a sigh of relief that she finally served dinner and called them in to wash up. She brought a plate up to her mother's bed, and returned to find James eating the tomatoes in the salad. Mrs. Jones had eyed the meal hungrily, shifting her large body to lean forward and smell the bread. Cendra was forced to ask her if she would like to stay, and Mrs. Jones gladly accepted, all the while keeping up her ceaseless chatter.

"-And then, you know how poor Tom is, he keeps stutterin' and stutterin' as though it were the king hisself had asked him, and all the while the blood is filling up his face like a red pepper. And his wife was standing just so, you see, with her arms crossed, scowlin' as though she were the angel of death, and just as ready, I reckon, to fill the role. Say, can you pass me the salad? Thank you, dear. There ain't a soul on this side of the Himintar that can withstand her stare, and Tom was always a poor liar anyway."

She continued with that story, and a few others, pausing only to bite a swallow, hardly taking the time to chew her food. After a good ten minutes she stopped for breath, and to wipe her mouth with a napkin.

"Ahh, but here I got caught up in Mabel's misfortune, and I clear forgot what I meant to tell you in the first place! As I was sayin' earlier, Tom ended up losing his job over it all, which reminds me, he's not the only one who's been down on luck. I heard a friend of a friend mention the other day that their cousin's daughter lost a job as housemaid to a noble family in the crown city. Dropped a vase, did she, and a valuable one at that! Lost her job and a month's wages for it. Terrible lady, her employer was, real harsh and strict-like. Not the kind that anyone would want to work for. The girl was unfortunate to work for her, and I say, it's a good thing she lost her job before somethin' worse happened!"

Mrs. Jones nodded wisely.

"If you ever aim to get a job, dear" she said, looking kindly at Cendra, "I advise you not to fool with the noble folk. Awful picky lot they are. How terrible for your mother, though! My heart really does ache for her, bless her. Ahh, but that reminds me why I came here. The noblewoman I told you of earlier -what was her name- Charlton? No, Claxton! That's right. Lady Claxton. She's in need of a new housemaid, and I'm sure a young lady like you would be perfect for the job."

It took ten more minutes for Mrs. Jones to completely reveal her plan for getting Cendra hired; apparently she had a few higher-up relatives who had connections who could get Cendra recommended. While Cendra doubted their abilities to get her a position in a place so distant from her own town, at Mrs. Jone's insistence, she agreed to talk to her mother about it.

Finally satisfied, the well-meaning lady left. Cendra cleared dinner and got her brothers ready for bed.

"Tell us a story!" Thomas pleaded with big eyes as she tucked him in.

"Yeah," James said eagerly, "one with fighting in it!"

Cendra almost declined, but their cute faces and the thought that she might not be with them much longer worked together to convince her to acquiesce.

"What should it be about?" she asked tiredly.

After a short debate, the boys settled on their favorite story.

"Tell the story about Sir Berin."

"Of course you'd pick that one," Cendra smiled. Sitting down between the two, she began the tale.

"Endomia wasn't always a country like you see it today. Hundreds of years ago, there were no houses or streets or majestic castles. There were no farmhouses or fields of wheat. There were no laws, either. People did anything to get what they wanted, and if it meant killing someone, they would do it. It was a bad, scary world, full of bad men. No one could live in peace, or sleep at night without being afraid of waking up dead.

"But one day everything changed. It changed because a brave man named Berin came into the country. No one knew where he came from or why. He told the people that there was no need to be afraid. If they followed him, they would be safe, and together they would build a new kingdom. He told them that they would find peace.

"No one believed him. They thought he was either a liar or a fool. But Berin was no fool. And he saw that the only way to peace was to win the hearts, and the trust, of the people. He set out to do exactly that. At this time, there were many different creatures raging about in the wild that men were afraid of. There were dragons, and sphinxes, and many more mysterious creatures.

"Berin wandered about in the mountains for many days, but he found no evidence of any of them. He didn't give up, though. He kept searching day after day, and eventually he found what he was looking for: a griffin's nest. It was perched up on the top of a dangerous, steep, cliff. He climbed all the way to the top of the cliff, and saw that there were griffin's eggs in the nest.

"Berin was crafty, and he knew that the parent's would return to the nest. If they discovered that he had stolen the eggs, they would be very angry. There was little chance that Berin would survive their attack as he scaled the cliff-face. So instead of taking them and fleeing, he replaced them with rocks the same size and color. Then he took them down to his camp at the base of the mountains.

"Other men, skeptical ones, were waiting for him at camp. When they saw him return, they couldn't believe their eyes. He showed them the eggs, and the put them in a tent and kept them warm so they would hatch. The skeptics began to think that maybe, just maybe, there was something special about Berin. But the moment the parent griffins attacked the camp, their hope fled.

"Berin confronted the adult griffins. The men hid in the tents to see what would happen. The griffins picked Berin up in his talons and carried him away. The men thanked heavens that they had escaped, and they told each other again that Berin was only a madman. That is, until he returned, three days later, on the back of the father griffin.

"No one knows how he tamed them, or what he told them to get them to serve him willingly. But the truth is that they obeyed his command, and when the baby griffins hatched they followed him as well. It was only the first of many trials that Berin faced, and many hard ones came after, but after taming the griffins, he finally had what he wanted: the trust of the people. Eventually after many battles peace was won, and the people rejoiced. Berin was proclaimed King. Hundreds of years have passed since then, and Sir Berin is long dead, but the royal family still possesses the ability to tame the griffins. And that is how we know that they are descended from the blood of Sir Berin the Griffin Tamer."

Cendra carefully stood up, trying not to wake the boys. James, however, opened his eyes and grabbed her arm.

"It's true, right?" he asked her, as he always did.

"Yes, Jamie, it's true."

"Is Berin really a hero?"

"Yes, he was born centuries ago, but he really did exist."

James gave a contented smile, and started to close his eyes, but he opened them again to ask one more question.

"Are there really magical animals like griffins and dragons?"

Cendra sighed. "I don't know, James. I've never seen any before, but they are supposed to be very rare, and it's not like you see them in towns or cities. I mean, if you were a great creature like a griffin, you probably wouldn't want to be cooped up in a cramped house, now would you?"

James wrinkled his nose. "I guess not," he said.

"You know what?" she said, smiling. "When I go to the crown city, I'll try to find out for myself whether or not they have magical creatures somewhere. And who knows, maybe I'll meet a dragon or faery in disguise."

_Author's Note: So, there isn't much action in this chapter, but we here more of the legend of Berin, and we also learn for the first time of the existence of magical creatures. I had trouble writing Mrs. Jones' monologues, as she kept losing track of the subject, and annoying me to no end. But Cendra's narration of the Tale of Berin the Griffin Tamer just came out so naturally for me. It was really fun to write. :) As always, please review and comment on what you liked and disliked! 3_


	8. Chapter 8

Stroke of Twelve: Chapter 8

"We're here, ma'am," the coachman said. Cendra picked up her suitcase and nervously stepped out.

"Thank you, sir," she told him as she paid him the fare. He simply nodded in reply and drove off, without so much as a "Have a nice day".

Not that it would have comforted her if he did, for Cendra certainly did not feel as though it were a nice day.

A week before, she had spoken with her mother about the housemaid job. She really didn't think anything would come out of it, and she had hoped her mother would think the same, but she was completely wrong. Mrs. Flaxfield had pounced on the opportunity, hastily writing a letter to a friend of her's who she said could talk to Lady Claxton. Cendra was surprised, as she really hadn't known her mother had a noble friend in the crown city. And she couldn't believe that she would get a job there, either.

She still couldn't believe it. Even standing at the gate of Claxton Mansion, in the city, miles away from home, she kept hoping that she would wake up and find it all a dream. A nightmare, really. Shy, awkward Cendra Flaxfield, daughter of her small town's needy invalid widow, was housemaid for Lady Claxton and her family. Not that was some great sophisticated job or anything of the sort, but it was still intimidating and incredible that in one simple week she had left behind everything she knew to start a new life.

Forcing herself to take strong, purposeful steps, Cendra moved through the front gate and down the path to the front door. The house was large and intricately decorated, even from the outside she could see the frilly curtains, and the expensive vases full of flowers set on the windowsills. There were hedges and flowers on either side of the path, and other smaller paths running off, no doubt towards delightfully secluded sections of the garden.

And to think, this was only the city house. The property was limited because of the other noble's houses nearby; it's purpose was for when the family wished to reside nearby the castle, to be ready for any balls and gatherings held there. Cendra couldn't even imagine what the country mansion must look like. But how could she? Her own home was a small two-story with a leaky thatch roof.

Her knock on the door sounded bold, though her hand shook slightly as she administered it. She waited nervously a moment, and then mentally slapped herself as she realized there was a doorbell. _Good way to make a first impression_, she told herself. She grabbed the rope and pulled.

Not a second later the door opened and a blank faced maid stood there.

"Welcome, my lady," she said hurriedly, "Please step inside and-" she stopped suddenly and glared at Cendra. "Who're you?" she asked irritably. "If you've come here to bother my mistress for charity, let me tell you now, you're wasting your time. She cannot be bother now. Didn't you know Fridays are her lady's club days?"

"Cendra Jane Flaxfield. I'm the new housemaid." Cendra did her best to sound professional.

"Not yet you aren't. You have to go through testing first," the maid said, then sighed. "I'm sorry for snapping. Please come inside; I'll take you to the housekeeper. We've got to hurry, because guests will be arriving in a few minutes."

"Okay," Cendra said, hurrying to follow the maid. She looked at the girl as they walked, and realized she probably wasn't much older than her. They both had black hair, but Cendra was taller.

"My name's Anne," the girl said, noticing Cendra watching her. "I hope you'll overlook my temper, and maybe we'll get along."

After a few twists and turns, they arrived at a door. Anne opened it without knocking, and Cendra realized it was the kitchen. A few servants, presumably cooks, were busy at the ovens.

"I can't take you any farther," Anne said regretfully. "Just go into the pantry; Miss Jane is in there discussing courses with the chef."

Cendra had no time to ask what Miss Jane looked like before Anne was gone. She braced herself and walked through the kitchen, avoiding getting in the way of the cooks. Heading towards a door on the far side of the room, she peeked inside to find a long room filled with shelves of stored food. She walked past them until she came upon two people.

The first was a man, tall and brown-haired, and slightly pudgy. From his clothes and apron, she could tell he was the chef, and he was talking in a fast, angry voice. Beside him, wearing an annoyed expression, stood one of the most beautiful women Cendra had ever seen. She was tall and stately, possessing a natural grace and authority. Her skin was pale, and her eyes a deep purple. Her grey hair was pulled back in an elegant bun, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, though showing her age, did nothing to detract from her beauty.

When the lady turned towards her, ignoring the rant of the chef, Cendra took it as an opportunity to speak. "Excuse me, are you Miss Jane?"

The woman gave a stunning smile, "Why yes, dear. Am I right in assuming that you are Cendra Flaxfield, our newest tryout for the position of housemaid?"

"Er, yes, I am," said Cendra, surprised that she did not have to introduce herself.

"Good to meet you," Miss Jane said, shaking her hand. "Come with me and I'll brief you on what your job will be."

As they left the room, the chef stepped forward and opened his mouth as though to speak. Miss Jane held up a hand to silence him.

"It will be shellfish, Mr. Becket," she said sternly, "or you may bid farewell to your position in this house."

The chef glared at her, but shut his mouth. He turned and stalked away.

Miss Jane led Cendra through various rooms, describing what would need to be done and how she should do it. Cendra took it all in, vowing to remember the information. It wasn't too different from what she had to do at home, though there were some jobs that she had never had the need to do in her own house, such as dusting vases or arranging flowers.

"There, that's pretty much all of it," Miss Jane said, closing the doors to a dining room. "You'll only have to dust this room once a week, unless Lady Claxton entertains company in it. In that case, you'll have to clean before and after. Any questions?"

Cendra assured her that she understood everything perfectly.

"Good." Miss Jane nodded. "I will show you your room now."

After a few twists and turns, they reached a staircase.

"Your room is separate from the other servants' quarters," Miss Jane explained, "because for now you are only working in the far west wing of the house, unlike most others, who work in the front. In a few months, if you are deemed capable, you will be moved to a superior position."

Cendra struggled to hurry after Miss Jane's brisk pace, without tripping over the uneven steps. When they reached the top, they faced a small door.

"Your room lies inside," Miss Jane said. "Arrange your belongings in any way you like, and make yourself at home. Afterwards, if you head to the kitchen the cooks will give you something to eat, but avoid well-frequented hallways, and don't disturb anyone. Your work begins tomorrow at six, so be sure to get a good night's sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," said Cendra, feeling slightly dizzy from all the instructions.

"Oh, and one more thing," the other said, pausing on the top step, "you may call me Jane, as the other maids do. If you have any trouble with anything, just seek me or Anne out." She smiled that beautiful smile of hers again. "I understand how hard it must be for you, but I'm sure you'll do well."

With that, she hurried off, leaving Cendra in front of the door. Cendra decided she liked Miss Jane, even if she was very brisk and busy in everything she did. At least she was kind, and that definitely counted for something in Cendra's book.

She carried her luggage into the room and placed it beside the neatly made bed. It was such a relief to put it down, after carrying it around the whole time. She walked over to a small square window and looked out. It provided a view of the street, and a little bit of the garden. Looking up, she discovered that her room was on the highest floor of the house.

Cendra looked around again at the room, noting the bare walls, the rafters of the ceiling, and the slanted ceiling. The whole thing looked to be some kind of attic.

"Well," she muttered, looking between her suitcase and the small dresser, "I'd better unpack, then see about getting dinner."

...

"No! You didn't!" Cendra gasped. Connor, a friendly cook in his early thirties, was telling her of the his disastrous attempts at cooking when he was younger.

"As a matter of fact, I did," he said, laughing as he related a tale, "The delivery boy still had not arrived with the fish, so I went to the pantry and fetched a whole chicken, filleting the white meat and laying it out with the proper seasonings. Or rather, what the proper seasonings would be if it had been fish, but I'm afraid they did not sit well with the taste of chicken. Master Reginald thought the same, and had no qualms about telling me so in a very straightforward manner."

He went on to describe the aftermath of his failure, which was quite funny the way he told it, and involved the displeasure of an eccentric lady vegetarian who frowned at eating land animals but believed it was perfectly fine to eat fish.

Cendra was happy that she had mustered the courage to enter the kitchen for her meal. Though she had been very shy at first, and afraid of making the wrong first impression, Connor had been the only one in the room, and was very kind and humorous. In no time he had brought Cendra out of her shell with his hilarious anecdotes.

"You'd think I would have learned my lesson after that incident," said Connor, shaking his head and smiling, "but oh no, I had plenty of mistakes yet to make." He stirred the vegetables he was sauteing in a pan. "There was the time when I lost count of how much sugar I put in a cake, and somehow ended up doubling the amount. I don't think the end result tasted that bad myself, but it did not turn out how it was supposed to, and so was a failure."

"I wouldn't count that as a failure," Cendra said, "But I guess that's because at my house, we're always thankful for anything that tastes good."

"Thank you," said Connor, "but I suppose delicate ladies working to maintain their stick-thin figure and live up to their standards of beauty care more about the calories and sugar than a peasant family brought up in poverty." He paused a moment, then swiftly added, "I mean no offense, of course. I'm just assuming, what with you having to work here, that your family must have some reason behind it, and in these times…"

Cendra smiled at his rambling, and shook her head gently.

"Don't worry, I'm not offended. It's true my family is poor, but I'm not ashamed of the fact. My mother and I do our best to support our family, and if we could do any better we would."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Connor, relieved. "Too many people take a comment like that as an insult. I come from a poor family myself. I was raised, along with my three brothers and two sisters, in a small cottage in Gartshire, so I never look down upon those who come from the peasantry."

"I live some miles south of here, beside the Himintar," Cendra said. "It's difficult to explain, but I don't exactly live in a town. A lot of people built their houses close enough to fend off loneliness, but the place doesn't really have a name. We pay our taxes at a nearby town's office, and that's where we go to mail correspondence and such. Most people there like to keep to themselves, but they are kindly enough."

"That sounds interesting," Connor said as he handed Cendra a plate of steaming food. "There aren't any places in the north, probably because of all the big cities and towns up here. It's more… wild down in the southern part of the country. Anyway," he changed the subject, "What is your family like? It must be hard leaving them to come all the way to the crown city."

He took a seat, leaning against the back of his chair leisurely. He fixed Cendra with an expectant look.

"Umm," Cendra murmured, blushing, "I don't know where to begin."

"What about your siblings," Connor prompted, "you do have some, right?"

"Oh, yes," Cendra said, relieved to have something definite to talk about. "Well, I have two brothers. James is nine, and Thomas is six. They're very naughty, and always getting into trouble."

"They sound just like my brothers," Connor laughed, then his expression grew serious. "Well, how they were before they died, anyway."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Cendra said awkwardly, unsure exactly how to respond.

"You've no need to be," Connor said softly, "I shouldn't have brought it up."

Cendra carried her empty plate to the sink and started to wash it. She was unaware that Connor was behind her until she felt the plate being pulled from her grasp.

"Why are you washing your dish? That job is for the kitchen boy," he said, laughing.

"Oh, right," Cendra said, embarrassed. "Force of habit, I guess." She yawned.

"You'd better get to bed, young lady," said Connor, becoming stern. "It's already seven."

"Seven!" said Cendra, half indignantly, as she yawned again. "Doesn't that seem a little early to you?"

"For me, perhaps," he said, eyes twinkling, "but considering your long journey today, and the fact that you have to get up at five tomorrow, I think it would be wise to retire early."

"Fine," Cendra huffed, walking towards the door. "Goodnight - it was nice meeting you!"

"'Night, Cendy," he called after her. She made a face, but stopped as she reached the door.

"You know," she said, turning and smiling at him sadly, "You would make a great dad."

"Where did that come from?" Connor joked, then, faking hurt, "I don't look that old, do I?"

Cendra laughed. "No, you're just very nice, that's all. And you know how to get someone to obey you without having to beat them."

She said it in a light tone, as though it were a joke. But as she traveled towards her room, she sighed.

"That means more to me than he could ever know."

_Author's note: Hi guys! Thanks for reading! Please tell me how I did in this chapter, and as always, I'm open to all kinds of constructive criticism, positive and negative. I'm not sure whether or not I like Connor's name, but I'm really bad at naming characters, so I think I'll stick with it for now. In the next chapter we will see how Cendra handles her job, and what happens when she meets with her employer, the Dreaded Lady Claxton! :) Thanks again!  
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_P.S. I just realized this chapter has the largest word count of all the chapters that I've written, so at this point it's the longest chapter in the book. :P_


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